


Coming Home

by nerdyrose24



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Not Captain America: The First Avenger Compliant, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prisoner of War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:01:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23546572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdyrose24/pseuds/nerdyrose24
Summary: After being held as a prisoner of war for two years and having his arm amputated, a haunted Bucky Barnes returns home.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Kudos: 100





	1. Coming home

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first multiple chapter work, so take it easy on me! (Although I am pretty proud of it.) I've found the work which inspired this one, its called make me feel like i'm home by merlypops. I really recommend reading that one :)

For weeks he’d felt like a corpse. At night, when he was saw again one atrocity after another which seemed to make up his entire existence, he knew he was in hell, and all his sinning had finally caught up with him. Days were better. He could just sit in a trance and become completely blank, inside and out, as he and the other prisoners of war were shunted through Europe on trains and trucks, until finally they were on the boat to America – to home. 

It took so long; he didn’t think it would actually happen. It was like a bedtime story, a fairy tale and he’d long since stopped believing in those. When somebody told him, Steve was looking forward to seeing him … Externally he didn’t react, but inside it was like someone had got a stick and prodded at a dying fire to set it going again. Small flames of hope flickered within him, obscured as always by the smoke. It was another trick, it had to be. If Steve really did want to see him, he needs his dumb skull screwing back on. What if … What if he goes home and Steve’s found someone else …? Then he really would have a breakdown. 

The day came. Realisation hit. The flames of hope were dancing now, and they were enough to awaken a sense of self-preservation; he had to at least try and appear presentable. With shaky nerve, he asked one of the ladies there to help, said he had a girl waiting for him back in Brooklyn. “Haven’t seen her in six years, don’t wanna scare her too much.” His voice was even shakier than his legs were, neither had been used in weeks. Standing up, he absently scratched at his left side. It helped lessen the ache he still felt from his missing limb, and comfort the ache he felt inside too. Phantom limb sensation, one of the doctors had called it. Bucky was pretty sure he was all phantom nowadays. 

“Of course.” The woman smiled. She was nice, pretty, too. The old Bucky would’ve flirted with her, maybe even asked her out even though they both knew they’d never see each other again. He wasn’t there yet, didn’t know if he ever would be. But her touch was gentle as she guided him into a little side room with a chair and a mirror in. Wincing at the thought of having to look at himself, he sat down and resolved not to look into the mirror until the woman was finished. 

Somehow, she still managed to be gentle even when putting a brush through his matted and greasy hair, pulling it away from his face before tying it up with an elastic band. She filled a bowl with water so he could wash his face, before revealing a razor in her right hand. Seeing the terror hit his face, she made a motion to hand it to him, at which he cowered even more. “It’s okay,” she soothed, tucking it back into her apron. Then she found him a clean(ish) shirt and even helped him fold and pin up the left sleeve. Her job done, she whispered: “Well, she’s a lucky gal.” patting Bucky on the shoulder gently, she left him alone with himself. 

Then Bucky saw himself, really saw himself, for the first time in years, under the glowing amber of the lightbulb. He had no words. That was no corpse staring back at him, that was a person. Haunted, yes. Older, yes. But alive and breathing, despite what he’d have himself believe. With his hair pulled back and his missing arm not so glaringly obvious, he could look like himself. He remembered Steve, once again, and felt the fires burning strong within him. He could do this. He was going home. 

***

Out on the street was another thing altogether. It was so sunny, everything covered in a warm golden haze. It was summer for Christ’s sake. He hadn’t seen a summer since before the war. They weren’t for him. Tunnel vision, that’s what he told himself. If he didn’t look at all the places he used to know, with kids and everything having a real swell time, he wouldn’t cry. He couldn’t cry until he got home. 

And then he was there – right outside the door. Still holding his duffel bag in his one hand, he reached up and knocked sheepishly, taking a deep breath. 

Steve was there before he even had time to exhale, and he was knocked for six. Bucky started to speak: “You look…” Beautiful, his brain finished for him. He was still short, with that same mop of blond hair, but he had filled out. Obviously, he was healthier, and it seemed he had finally started to take care of himself. All it took was me going away, Bucky thought sadly. Wide eyed, Steve stared at his face in wonder, his eyes only briefly shifting to his left shoulder and back again. Wordlessly, he pulled Bucky towards him by grabbing a handle of his bag. He put it on the floor just inside and practically placed Bucky in the dark house, before shutting the door. 

Then they were facing each other. Quickly, Steve reached up and kissed him, once on the lips, then his cheek, before wrapping both his arms around him with his head on his shoulder. “I knew you were alive, I just knew it,” Steve said, breathless and exalted. “Everyone kept telling me you weren’t, but I knew.” Delayed, Bucky placed his one arm on Steve’s back. Steve was amused to find the ponytail at the back of Bucky’s head. Laughing, he laced his fingers into the dark strands and pulled him impossibly closer. 

Silently, the tears fell. Never had Bucky felt so broken, yet so complete. He waited – Steve waited for him. “Beautiful,” Bucky said. “You look beautiful.” 

Chuckling again, Steve pulled back to place both his hands on Bucky’s face. Gently, he wiped the tears away. He rested their heads together. “I love you,” he said.


	2. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How easy will it be for Bucky to slot back into his old life with Steve?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I wasn’t finished yet! I plan on this being a 3-parter. I love writing about these two!

For the second time that day, Bucky found himself sat in front of a mirror being looked after. Now he realised he must have been deluded or delirious earlier when he thought he looks halfway decent. The sun was shining on Steve, or maybe the sun was shining out of Steve. God, he looked like an angel. Or he would, if Bucky still believed in that sort of thing, which he didn’t. What good had God ever done for him? First, he made him feel ashamed of who he was. Then he puts him through years of shit and mutilate him to be the haunted creep he saw staring out at him. A pang of guilt struck his chest. He didn’t deserve Steve, if he ever had. 

Steve was brushing through his freshly washed hair and smiling – he was doing that a lot. Suddenly, he stopped and put his hands on his shoulders as if steeling himself. “So,” he began. “Ready to go to your parents for dinner? They’re real excited to see you.”

Wow. He hadn’t been expecting that. Then, his heart started running inside of him; pounding against his chest, trying to get out. His brain was running with it too. Round and round and round. Reasons why Steve shouldn’t be with him, reasons why he shouldn’t be with Steve, why his parents would hate him and why maybe they won’t, but everything would feel wrong. Certainly, he was making up for all the time he spent walking around blank like a zombie. He was only vaguely aware of someone talking, that wasn’t in his head, and someone dropping to their knees and touching him. He flinched, ready to attack. A hand grabbed his knee, demanding his attention. Steve was in front of him. He was playing out a pantomime of breathing. Bucky hadn’t realised he was damn near hyperventilating. 

“Breathe with me, Bucky, come on.” There was a hand on his face. “That’s it.” There was stroking of his hair. He was calming down, slowly. 

Finally, Steve pulled away and sighed. “You had me worried there, pal.” He stood up, wrapped both arms around Bucky’s neck and sat down on his lap and dipped his head so there were only inches between their faces. “We don’t have to go,” he said, low like they were in a crowded room and he wanted only Bucky to hear. “But, you know, I would hate to put them off.” He gazed right into his eyes and put a hand on his face. “Listen, they’re not going to care about the arm or that you’ve changed. They’re like me. They love you and they want to see you.” 

Nodding, Bucky took another shaky breath, and leaned further in so they could hold each other for a while. Pressing his face into the long drying brown hair, Steve mused: “I really like your hair, by the way.” 

Bucky looked up, amused. “Yeah?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” Steve’s eyes widened. “It’s real masculine, and modern, in a way only you could pull off.” 

“Sap,” Bucky whispered, looking away. 

Steve scoffed, leaning back and beaming. He swung back in and pressed his lips fiercely to Bucky’s forehead. 

*****

Steve left Bucky on his own to get dressed, which the latter really appreciated. It was a struggle, especially the buttons, but he desperately wanted to feel normal - strong and confident so he could look after Steve like the old Bucky could. He groaned when he looked into the mirror when he was finished. He was ghostly and disappearing into his old shirt, the left sleeve swinging around, as if mocking him. Skeletal – that was what he looked like. A little like Steve used to, except Bucky loved Steve, he hated himself and what he was now.

Speak of the devil. The little guy had snaked up behind him, as he fumbled uselessly with the cuff buttons. “Let me help you with that”, Steve’s deep whisper trickled into Bucky’s ear and down his spine, making him shiver. His arms wrapped around his waist to reach the buttons; their bodies pressed against each other as Steve stood on tiptoes to look over Bucky’s shoulder. When he was finished, his left sleeve was folded up, the way the girl had back on the boat, except this time it was with artist fingers and a pin that had been waiting in his pocket, as if he knew he would need help. 

Steve lowered on his feet and reached for Bucky’s right arm. He turned willingly. “Thank you,” he mumbled. 

“No problem, beautiful.” That winning smile was back, a full-face beam, confident and assuring. Bucky gazed at him, as if he was dreaming and not really there. If he woke up now, he’d be back in the trenches, or the hospital, or in that zombie-like state when he was on his way home. If he woke up now, he really wouldn’t be able to take it. Hands pulled him closer by his shirt, and then Steve’s lips were on his again, kissing deeply. It was like a promise and Bucky was filled with a deep sense of being. He kissed back with equal fervour, wanting to take things further, much further. He wanted to feel again. 

Then it was over, and Bucky was empty again. Like a rag doll, he was pulled towards the front door. Steve was leading him backwards, his head cocked to one side, smirking. “Come, on. Let’s get this over with.”


	3. The First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky vents some of the anger he justly feels at what he has been through, and also the frustration at the fact that he can't seem to fit back into his old life.

That night, the first night, they lay side by side. Steve stared over at Bucky, who looked ethereal, he thought, bathed in the silvery moonlight, and pride swelled in his chest. He had had a tough day. Hell, he had no idea what he had been through in the past six years since he had seen him last. The army told him nothing, just that he was alive and coming home, which was all that mattered at the time. But Bucky had been so quiet, communicating only with his eyes, in which he could see plainly the tormented soul beneath, and since they’d gotten home, he’d been even quieter. The arm had been a shock. It was only now, with Bucky lying to his left, and he could see the wrap around his left shoulder, that he allowed his heart to break a little. Breathing shakily, he stroked his fingers along the left side of Bucky’s shirt, where the arm would have been. 

At dinner, the two had been inseparable, touching constantly. In a way, it had been kind of like old times when the two would push or smack each other in jest and Bucky would sling his arm over Steve’s shoulders… Tonight, those touches had been about reassurance. Thinking of Bucky’s mini breakdown before they left for his parent’s house, Steve had kept a hand firmly on Bucky’s knee to remind him: I’m here. On the walk there and back they’d had an arm around each other for comfort, for once not caring about who stared at them or who talked about them – they needed to feel each other. 

Bucky was not sleeping, his eyes were hooded, staring into nothing, but when he felt Steve’s fingers on his shirt, he turned over. Shortly after he got home, he had been feeling a rising anger, as well as a lump in the back of his throat. Coming home had been… overwhelming, too much, scary. Scary because, as Steve had been brushing out his freshly washed hair in front of them both, Bucky caught a glimpse of them both together. He looked about a hundred years old, felt it too, and Steve looked better than he ever had done; he had filled out everywhere and his features now fit his face. And he was still a golden boy, even more so since he hadn’t been in a fight in years, and had no intention of fighting anybody, or so he told Bucky over dinner. Dinner. God, what a farce. He was paraded around to see his family, and everyone cried. Bucky couldn’t cry; he couldn’t even speak. Everything felt wrong. Even Steve touching him felt wrong. 

Steve took this movement as a cue to spoon. For once, he could be the big spoon. Smiling to himself, he turned more onto his side and carefully wrapped his left arm around Bucky. Then, he dared to move in closer, buried his face in his hair and whispered: “I’m so proud of you.” 

Bucky’s heart beat so loud at that, like soldiers-marching-and-grenades-blowing loud. Thankfully, the little punk seemed to go to sleep shortly after, because it wouldn’t’ve taken much more to set him off. He was dangerous. Anger pulsated through his blood. As soon as he could hear Steve’s deep, slumbering breaths, he carefully removed himself from the bed, placed a pillow in his place and went over to the window. 

*** 

Steve woke in the night, he wasn’t sure why, until he felt the ‘Bucky’ underneath his arm and realised it was a pillow. Huh? His heart sank. It wasn’t…a dream, was it? Where’s…? “Buck,” he breathed, as he lifted his head and saw him by the window. “What are you doing up?” There was something off about the way he was just standing there. His head turned slightly with a sharp motion, and the voice his answered with was low and harsh and nothing like Bucky at all: “I told you to find someone else.” 

“What?” Steve’s mind was still addled with sleep. “What are you talking about?” 

“The last thing I said to you. I asked you to do one thing for me, Steve, is it really that hard?” he was louder now, as if he was attacking Steve. 

Steve’s heart sank as realisation hit. Of course, he remembered their last conversation, how could he not. Damn near ripped his heart out. He put a hand on his forehead, exhausted. “But – but - the letters?” For a time (obviously before Bucky’s capture), they had kept up a correspondence. Steve told him there could never be anyone else as long as Bucky was alive, and Bucky conceded, reluctantly. 

“You wasted years of your life, waiting, how could you do that?” Bucky practically spat the words out. 

“I didn’t waste those years. I worked and I made friends, made a life for myself, even though it hurt like hell.” Steve was really trying not to shout. 

Bucky’s face contorted. Tentatively, Steve got out of bed and moved slowly forward. “Hey…” he soothed.

Bucky visibly recoiled, which was like a stab right in the middle of Steve’s heart. “Don’t,” Bucky said weakly, before throwing his one arm up in the air in resignation and exiting to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

From outside, Steve could hear a bang. “Buck?” He walked over to the door and opened it. Bucky was crying and uselessly wrapping a bloody hand around himself as Steve stared at the great big hole in the wall next to him. “Buck,” he said as he closed in and gently took his hand. He reached over to the cabinet and got something to wrap it up with. He proceeded to clean up the blood as best he could with some tissue. 

Steve kept hold of that sore hand, gently rubbing circles into it with his thumb. For once in his life, Steve didn't know what to say, or what to do.

“Was there really never anyone else?” Bucky whispered; his eyebrows furrowed. 

“I tried. Once. A girl I work with at the art shop, but I couldn’t go through with it, knowing you could still be out there,” Steve explained, watching Bucky closely. 

Bucky looked pained. “But they told you I was dead. What, did you want them to roll my dead old corpse over to your front door?” 

“Don’t even joke about that.” Steve was exhausted. “I’m going back to bed.” But before he could leave, he felt Bucky’s face in the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry.” His voice was quiet and muffled. It was enough to soften Steve, who turned around and tugged on his shirt. “Come back to bed. Come on.” He let Steve lead him and push him back onto the bed, feeling like a useless ghost of a man, feeling ashamed. 

They lay facing each other this time. Steve stroked Bucky’s cheek, as Bucky desperately tried to sniff back his tears. “What is it?” Steve asked, his eyes soft, concerned. 

Bucky reached over the space between them on the bed, his fingers clutching at the ends of Steve’s shirt. “Its just…” He turned onto his back and threw his arm over his head, frustrated. “God, I can’t even hold you right, anymore!” 

Wordlessly, Steve picked up Bucky’s arm and placed it over his waist and snuggled up next to him. “But you are holding me.” Bucky stared up at him in awe. “You don’t need two arms to make me feel safe, Buck.” A tear was brushed away from Bucky’s faced, a forehead laid against his, and a voice whispering: “All you gotta do is be here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it - for now.


End file.
